


Ere That Last Weird Battle

by Alixtii



Series: The Fires of Love and Wrath [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Adultery, Elves, Ethics, F/M, First Time, Outdoor Sex, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Philosophy, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alixtii/pseuds/Alixtii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mordred has captured Caerleon and Guinevere, and Arthur wants back his crown and his wife, while Morgan tries to make peace between her brother and son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sir George and Sir Gregory stood on the battlement of Caerleon Castle, watching the mob below: a mindless, violent, and vandalic force which destroyed everything in its path. “They’re getting louder,” Gregory observed.

Sir George nodded. “Lord Mordred’s gotten them all riled up. They’ll be within the castle any minute now—soon enough they’ll be up here, even.”

Gregory sighed. Neither knight said anything about what they would do when that happened. “With the true king off fighting the Romans—”

“Good evening, gentleman.”

Obviously startled, the two knights went for their swords as they spun around. They had been watching the mob so intently they hadn’t even noticed Mordred coming up behind them. “Usurper,” spat out Sir Gregory on seeing Mordred.

Mordred only smiled. Now, Sir Gregory, certainly we can keep a civil tongue. Especially in the presence of the king.”

“If the king were here, he’d. . . .” Sir Gregory trailed off.

“Oh, but the king is here. Do you know why?” He pulled a dagger from his belt. “This blade says so. I’d advise you to remember what it has to say from now on, before it has to communicate its message in a more direct manner.”

“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Sir George stepped in, conciliatory. How can one not mean anything by “usurper”? mused Mordred. It was a rather loaded word.

In any case, Sir Gregory seemed to hold no interest in letting George to be diplomatic. “I certainly did,” he said, “you treasonous bastard—”

“A bastard I am,” admitted Mordred. “Only weak men fear the truth.”

“Lord Mordred—King Mordred! I—I—” Sir George could only stammer. At least he has that much wisdom, Mordred thought. He knows when he ought to be scared.

Sir Gregory’s reaction to George’s attempt to play diplomat was one marked more by disgust. “You weak-willed excuse for a—”

“Certainly the sniveling wimp has no backbone, but at least he has the good sense—which you lack—to side with the inevitable winner.”

“Inevitable, my ass. When the true king returns,” Gregory said, looking Mordred in the eyes, “he’ll—”

Mordred slapped him, a strong blow across the jaw which sent the man reeling. Gregory grabbed his cheekbone, clearly embarrassed at being injured so easily by a seventeen-year-old being. He drew his sword.

“You are getting weak, old man,” Mordred taunted. “Why do you think Arthur left you behind? You were no good to him, and now you defend him still? With your life?”

“There is something,” said Gregory, clutching his sword, “called honor. You do not understand it.”

“Oh, I understand it. It’s what keeps you in your place, and Arthur on his throne. I’m quite grateful for it, actually. It’s your honor which kept Arthur king until it was my turn, and which will keep me king when he is but a memory, like all of the tyrants of old, his father before him included.

“But enough of this. I am the king now in the only real sense, the only sense that matters: I hold the power.” He flipped his dagger into the air, then caught it by its hilt. “In this case: the power of life and death. Let me guess which will be your fate.”

Sir Gregory lunged; it was little trouble for Mordred the old man’s thrust and plunge his dagger into Gregory’s chest. He turned to Sir George. “Give me one reason why I should let you live.”

“My king—”

“Time’s up.” He killed George.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mordred turned around to see Nimue.

“The old fool couldn’t help being a spineless coward.” Mordred turned back around, facing his original direction, this time to see Merlin. They were surrounding him, was that it?

“Lord Wizard,” Mordred greeted Merlin.

“A delightful mob that you have riled up,” said Merlin. “You are quite the firebrand, I see?”

“What do you want?” Mordred did not trust the wizard any more than his mother did. He did not judge Merlin, understood the thirst for power, but that didn’t make the wizard any less unreliable.

It was Nimue, however, who answered. “To congratulate you,” she said, a sly smile on her girlish face. “On the successful seizure of your father’s throne, no less.”

“It’s quite a coup you’ve engineered, my boy,” Merlin agreed. “Rather impressive, I must say. Two dead bodies at our very feet, and how many elsewhere? So many others; new ones fall each moment, left and right. Drunken peasants calling out for freedom! How drôle. Yet so intense and so violent. When everything else becomes blasé, a riot is still a joy to watch, you know? As the passion takes hold of a people so that they do as a group, under its power, what they would never dream of doing as individuals . . . such a joy.”

“Get on with it, wizard.”

“Since you were a child,” Merlin explained, “it has been the same old thing. Oppressive taxes, terrible restrictions, the people practically reduced to slaves, toiling under the heavy burden of your father’s laws. And, I, in the shadows, causing it all, along with Nimue. It was delicious in itself for a few years, but such pleasures get old rather quickly. But it’s been culminating to this point, Mordred, waiting for you. Had it not happened tonight, then it would have ten years hence. Anger and frustration have been building, waiting to be released in a glorious insurrection. War, chaos, anarchy, all over again—it’s about time, don’t you think?”

What was this man’s agenda, Mordred wondered not for the first time. As he said, he lurked in the shadows, always, manipulating the affairs of Caerleon and of Britain. The combined might of his mother and the other Queens of Faerie could not stop him. But what did the wizard want? Could it be as simple as his mother painted it, a single-minded thirst for destruction?

“Wizard, you are insidious,” was all Mordred said.

Merlin nodded as if to accept the compliment, He turned, walked into the shadows, and vanished.

Nimue looked at Mordred, her face inscrutable. “And now,” she said at last, “to consummate your victory.”

“What do you mean?”

“She waits for you,” Nimue answered, stepping back into the shadows. “Go, my lord. Let the last blow against your father be struck.” Then the shadows engulfed her, too, and Mordred was alone.

* * *

The door opened. Mordred did not knock, Guinevere noticed, or ask permission; he _acted_. He came through the door, tall and handsome, ready to take that which he wanted. And here she was for him, was she not? Beautiful and stunning as always.

“So,” she said. “You’ve decided to show up after all.” Mordred paused, clearly taken back by her directness. “Well, come on, now. You came here for a reason, did you not? Certainly not to stand there and gape. It’s bad enough with Arthur. I’m not going to hold _your _hand through this. You are better than that, are you not? You are _king_. Take charge, show that you deserve your prize.”

Mordred glared at him, clearly aware that she was manipulating him, but complied anyway. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded. Again, no preamble, no courtesies, nothing but a brutal glorious, command. He said what he wanted.

Regardless, Guinevere did not move. She simply sat there, waiting for Mordred to make the next move.

Frustrated, he slapped her in the face.

Her face stung; the blow hurt. Mordred was strong; she had seen him in combat against Sir Bohort and twice against Sir Lancelot. Neither was Mordred afraid of hurting her. She was his now, and she knew he would do to her whatever he wished. None of Arthur’s nonsense of respect for his wife; Mordred would take charge, a real man.

The pain across her cheek continued, very real, allowing her to feel the force of Mordeds brutal passions, the Adamic drive that would not be satiated until it physically possessed her, his body pressing down upon hers. The drive controlled Mordred now.

And it was Guinevere who controlled the drive.

“Take off your clothes,” Mordred repeated, forcefully but calmly.

“Finally, you are beginning to take charge,” said Guinevere. “You are the king: act like one! Don’t depend on me—I am still Arthur’s wife, am I not? Till death do us part, as they say. Supposedly, it is my duty to resist.”

She raised her gaze to meet Mordred’s; she could see the anger and frustration in his eyes, a passion which raged so strongly for her body. “A girl has to hedge her bets, you know,” she said. “If you want my clothes off, you’ll have to take them off yourself.”

Mordred didn’t have to be asked twice. Violently, he stripped off her clothing, tearing at it with a single-minded enthusiasm, sending her body flying in this direction and that. She could feel the bruises form on her arms and legs, attestations that he had made her his. This was a man, who took charge, a real king, who did not have to depend on an enchanted sword or on a wizard, she thought as she was stripped naked by Mordred, her wholesome, voluptuous flesh revealed to him bit by bit—flesh that was now his. His prize, stolen from his unworthy father.

And then, like a king, he took her.


	2. Chapter 2

“She wishes to see you,” Oberon, King of Avalon, instructed his daughter.

Gloriana nodded. She had always been a little awed by her mother, the High Queen of Avalon. But when Titania sent for you, you came. She entered her mother’s throne room. “Mother?” she called out.

“I am here, child,” her mother answered. The mists thickened, and there was Titania, in her glory, her elvish figure wrapped in a saffron gown. “Come with me,” she said. Gloriana took her mother’s hand, and the mists surrounded the them.

They traveled deeper into the heart of Faerie, out of Avalon. Titania rode the mists like the elder sorceress that she was; it was all Gloriana could do to keep up with her mother. “Where are we going?” she asked her mother.

“Illusion,” answered Titania. “Fantasy and deeper truth. The unconscious mind of Man.”

Slowly, the mists unfolded, and Gloriana and Titania stood atop a hill, surrounded on all sides by green pasture. “Look,” said Titania, pointing. Gloriana looked in the direction her mother indicated. What she saw was a large dragon, with wings and a reptile’s scales, its skin the color of ivory, breathing fire, locked in combat with a large brown bear. At first, the bear seemed to be winning, and the dragon cried out with bloodcurdling screams. Yet the dragon, wildly beating its wings, somehow got free of the bear’s claws, and circled the beast from its position in the sky, far above the bear and out of its reach. Suddenly, it swooped down with lightning quickness, and with it’s fiery maw tore the bear’s heart right out of its body, killing it.

“What does it mean, mother?” Gloriana asked.

“The dragon is the youngest Penndragon, so full of youth and anger and passion, his ambition as endless as the sky,” answered Titania. “The bear is his father, the king of Britain, Arthur, seeped in violence, but with his heart in the Earth.”

“The dragon has his heart now,” observed Gloriana. “How do you know all this? The realm of Men is far removed from our Isle.”

“It was not always so,” reminded Titania. “There was a time when the two worlds were one. One day, it may be so again. In the meantime, the eye is keenest when it looks inward. In the fabric of Faerie, all secrets are made known.” Titania looked out into the field. “There is King Arthur, now.”

Indeed, there was a man upon the pasture, marked as men so often were by the ravages of time. “Who is that other man?” Gloriana asked, for another man has appeared to meet the first, and behind him, dozens of maidens followed.

“He is Gawain,” answered Titania, “the most loyal of Arthur’s knights. He was murdered by his own father, the Lord of Lothian. The women behind him are those for whom he fought in righteous quarrel during his life. He comes, too, to warn the king, but Arthur will not understand.”

For a moment, Titania and Gloriana only stood on the hill, watching the exchange. Then Titania said, “It is time for you to go down to him, Gloriana.”

Uncertain, Gloriana started down the hill. What was she to do when she reached him? What would she say to him? Gloriana did not know, but her mother’s edict could not be disobeyed.

She approached the king, and a wordless question was apparent in his eyes. She did not answer—she did not know the answer. Behind the king, there was a giant stone slab in the shape of a circle. Fortune’s wheel, her mother’s voice whispered, but Titania was nowhere to be seen. Upon the wheel was a golden throne, and Gloriana, still not saying a word, gestured to it.

Arthur sat upon the throne, his eyes affixed upon Gloriana. He has never seen an elf before, she realized. He thinks I am beautiful.

You are beautiful, came her mother’s voice again.

Gloriana bound the king to the throne with ropes of silk, and the wheel began to spin, slowly at first and then faster and faster, until Arthur’s features could no longer be made out within the blur which resulted.. Suddenly, the stone wheel broke, splitting into two great halves, and Arthur plummeted into a pit below. Gloriana, standing at the side of the pit, looked down to see thousands of serpents in the pit, and the beasts set upon the screaming king and tore him apart limb by limb.

The world around her gave itself up to the mists, and Arthur’s dream was no more.

* * *

Arthur awoke with a start from his nightmare, surprised to see Merlin, Sir Lionel, and Sir Balin circled around him. “Your cries woke most of the camp,” Sir Balin explained.

“I had a very strange dream,” said Arthur, relieved that it was only a dream.

Sir Balin nodded. Still, Arthur could detect an expression of worry on the knight’s face. “What is the matter?”

“Sire,” began Balin, “we have received word from Caerleon.”

“And?”

“And, Lord Mordrerd has seized both Caerleon Castle and Queen Guinevere, and declared himself the new King of Britain.”

Arthur’s heart dropped. Just when he had succeeded fighting back the Romans, he would have to fight his son for his wife and throne? “We have most of the armies here,” he pointed out.

“As we speak, armies are arriving from Lothian and Cornwall to support Mordred,” Merlin informed him. “In addition, Mordred holds the advantage of having the walls of Caerleon Castle to hide behind.”

Arthur nodded, acknowledging Merlin’s statements. “Let me get dressed,” he said the knights, “We leave for Caerleon immediately.”

Lionel and Balin nodded and left. “Merlin,” Arthur said, “will you help me?”

“As always,” said Merlin. “I will do whatever is in my power to serve your majesty.”

“My dream,” said Arthur. “It disturbs me. Can you tell me what it means?”

“Only if you tell me what it is,” said Merlin. “I am not the prophet Daniel.”

“At first, there was a dragon and a bear,” said Arthur, “locked in mortal combat. The dragon managed to escape the bear’s grip, and slew the bear.”

“Is it not obvious?” asked Merlin. “You, Arthur Penndragon, are the dragon. Mordred has the advantage now, but you will destroy him.”

Morgan will be very mad at me if I destroy her son, Arthur could not help but think. “Then,” he continued, “Gawain came to me, and warned me that, if I did nothing to prevent my fate, that I should soon pass from Earth and rest eternally.”

“Such is equally clear. If you do not face Mordred now, he will find you and will destroy you. Your knight calls you to battle, as a good knight should.”

“And then finally,” said Arthur, retelling the third part of his dream, “there was a throne of gold set upon a stone wheel, and a beautiful woman as fair as Morgan or Guinevere. She bid me to sit upon the throne, and I did, and she bound me to it with silk ropes. Suddenly, the wheel began to turn, faster and faster, until it broke and I plummeted into a pit full of snakes.

“And then I woke up.”

For several moments, Merlin said nothing. “The woman,” he said, “was the goddess of sovereignty. She represents your divine right to rule. She binds you to your throne, so that nothing can sever that right. But the earthly foundation of that divine rule breaks, and Mordred takes Caerleon Castle. You find yourself at the mercy of vipers—your son and his cohorts. Your rôle is clear: you must wrestle back your throne.”

Arthur nodded, sadly, accepting Merlin’s explanation. He would have to wage war on his own castle, his own son. What would Morgan have to say about this?


	3. Chapter 3

“The king will see you now, my lady.”

He’s not the king! Morgan felt like screaming. That would get her nowhere, though, so she simply let herself be led into the Caerleon throne room. There was Mordred, looking quite comfortable sitting on Arthur’s throne, and Guinevere on her throne besides him. Agravaine and Nimue completed the picture, lending a subtle symmetry to the scene.

“Good morning, Mother,” said Mordred.

Morgan did not even bother saying good morning back. “I can’t believe you went through with this,” she said. “You can’t just announce you are king and expect everyone to follow you.”

“No?” Mordred asked. “And yet I sit here in the throne of the King of Britain. Arthur’s queen sits to my right. Caerleon Castle is mine. The people love me and flock to my banner. I am their savior, liberating them from their evil tyrant and his wizard.”

“How can you say that about your father?”

“Do you deny it? You and your sorceress friends have been trying to dethrone him ever since I was conceived. I have simply succeeded where you failed.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Morgan. “You know your father will fight to regain his kingdom.”

“And his wife,” Guinevere interjected.

Mordred turned to Nimue. “You bear news of the campaign?”

The girl nodded. “Arthur’s troops broke camp this morning. They’ll reach Caerleon within a fortnight.”

“We’ll simply need to move as much food as we can from the surrounding lands into Caerleon Castle while we still have time. When the siege begins, we’ll start to ration food.”

“It won’t be enough,” contradicted Guinevere. “Give half-rations to all but the warriors. The more chambermaids die of starvation, the less you need to feed.”

“See?” Mordred beamed. “Doesn’t she have an excellent military mind? Among other assets, of course.”

“And I suppose the fact that they have families and children means nothing in your stratagems?”

“Don’t be foolish, Lady Morgan,” said Guinevere. “Of course they mean something: hungry mouths that we cannot afford to feed.”

“You two deserve each other,” Morgan said. “You really do.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” said Mordred. “I know Guinevere does.”

Were there any two worse Narcissists? “Arthur bears Calagwlch,” Morgan reminded her son. “Do you think any amount of food will keep Arthur from fighting for his kingdom?”

“And wife,” Guinevere interjected—again.

“What is he going to do, hack at Caerleon Castle with the sword? No matter how potent its magic may be, he’s still just one man with one sword.”

Morgan turned to Agravaine. “That’s what your father thought, once. Now he knows better.”

“Now, he sends troops to join the cause of the insurrection under Lord Mordred’s banner,” Agravaine corrected. “It’s just like the old days—Lothian and Cornwall united to overthrow Arthur. And you would remember my father has many allies.”

“This will not end without a battle,” Morgan predicted. “Merlin will see to that. Don’t you see how he is playing all of you for fools, manipulating you like pawns in a chess game? His apprentice stands here, watching over you!”

“It all depends on how one plays the game,” said Guinevere. “This pawn made it to the eighth rank, did she not?”

“We are not part of your pointless crusade, Mother. If Merlin is going to play his game, we might as well use it to our advantage.” Mordred paused. “Of course, there may be a way you can prevent such an outcome as such a horrific battle.”

“What do you mean?”

It was Nimue who spoke. “There can only be a battle if there are two sides to fight it. Take out Arthur, and there is no need for anyone else to fight. You’ve tried it before—monsters, knights, and who can forget Melora’s glorious poisoned robe? Only this time, Merlin will not stand in your way. Take him out, and let your son rise to take his places as king unopposed.”

“Destroy my brother so a tyrant can replace him? Why should I do such a thing?”

“It’s up to you, Lady Morgan,” answered Guinevere. “Do whatever your conscience says is best.”

“Conscience? Do you even know what a conscience is?”

“Of course, Mother,” said Mordred. “It’s what keeps everyone else from breaking the rules. Convenient, no?”

“Each of us has our own principles,” answered Guinevere, ignoring Mordred. “You cannot betray yours anymore than I can betray mine. Your principles are those of hope, love, and good will to men. Mine are the principles of power and freedom.”

“Freedom? You would enslave Britain and yet you claim to stand for freedom.”

“My freedom,” clarified Guinevere. “I can’t give freedom to anyone else; it must be taken for oneself.”

“And so your principles will allow the two of you to take whatever you want from whomever who is too weak to oppose you?” asked Morgan. “All in the name of freedom? What gives you that right?”

“This throne,” answered Mordred. “The sword at my side. And more than anything else, the crowds outside cheering my name. People are fools, Mother; they _want _to be exploited.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Oh, mother. You and your backwards concept of morality. ‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ are old-fashioned concepts. Obsolete. They are for commoners, who lack the courage to rise above them and take control of their own destiny. You know that, you’ve always known that.”

“I myself taught it to you,” pointed out Nimue.

“When I am absolute ruler of all Britain,” Mordred said, “when no one, not even Arthur, opposes me, when people worship me as a God, when every word I speak is treated like divine law, _then_ tell me I had no ‘right’ to do so. Even now, everyone in the kingdom is singing my praises, but you tell me that, since you say something is wrong, it automatically is? Don’t give yourself airs, mother. What makes you special? Because you are a sorceress—because you have power? If anyone decides what is moral, it is I, for _I_ sit on the throne.”

“Kingdoms pass from hand to hand all the time. Are you seriously proposing that a tyrant should _not_ be overthrown?”

“Not to be replaced by a worse tyrant!” Morgan argued.

“Oh, but Mother,” said Mordred, “can you think of a single instance of history where a conqueror was more benevolent than his predecessor? _I_ cannot. The truth stands that Arthur is a tyrant, and if I didn’t overthrow him, someone else would. Merlin said as much.”

Morgan shook her head. “Someday you will regret your devil’s bargain.”

“I don’t trust him anymore than you do. But why should I work against him? Because you do not like his methods? Because you call him evil? I tell you, Mother: there is no good or evil, except as I decree.”

“You will learn you are mistaken,” said Morgan. “I only pray that I will not be too late.”

Mordred laughed. “Pray? When was the last time you prayed? You have many flaws, Mother, but prostrating yourself before some unseen deity in the sky is not one of them. Action is what gets us our wishes. How do you think I became king?”

“Through foolishness,” answered Morgan, but she knew her words would have no effect.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

War.

That was what served as the foundation for everything which now surrounded Morgan: the rows of tents, the soldiers with their swords on patrol, the massive engines of demolition that would now be used against as Caerleon Castle itself. Everything that was there was there for a single reason, and that was to destroy. The troops had been called into action to protect their land, to fight off the armies of the Roman Emperor, and now that they had won that battle, they rushed back to Caerleon to fight another.

Would the cycle of death never end?

Not while Merlin was alive, Morgan answered herself. Without him? Who could tell?

Morgan made her way through the camp. She did not need to ask for directions; she knew instinctively where her brother was—finding him was as easy as finding a smoking bowl of incense, even with one’s eyes closed.

Arthur and Merlin, along with several other knights—Morgan recognized them as Hector, Lionel, and Balin—were huddled around a table. Upon the table, lay a rough map of Caerleon.

“What if we began at the north, then moved to the southeast gate, and attacked there?” Lionel asked.

“No good,” Balin said. “They’d see us moving our troops.”

“Under the cover of darkness, then?” asked Arthur.

“The nights aren’t dark enough to hide a thousand loud men moving not more than sixty yards in front of them, my Lord.”

“Very well,” said Arthur, looking at the map. “Damn that brat. What in hell did he think he was doing?”

“I do not know, my lord. It would seem that—” Balin broke off as he became aware of Morgan’s presence. The other knights, silent, followed his gaze.

“Perhaps I had better leave,” said Merlin.

“That might be best, yes,” agreed Arthur.

Merlin and the knights exited quickly but quietly, leaving Morgan and Arthur alone.

“Hello, Morgan,” Arthur stated, uncertainly. “I did not expect to see you here.”

Morgan looked down at the map on the table. “That’s rather a poor resemblance to Caerleon Castle,” she said, pointing to the rough sketch of the castle in the center of the map. “Merlin knows the castle much better than that. Do you really believe there is one corridor, one secret passage he has not committed to memory?”

Arthur looked at the map, not saying anything. At last, he raised his eyes to meet hers, and asked, “What would you have me do?”

“I told you it would come to this,” said Morgan. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Arthur held his ground. “What would you have me do?” he asked again, plaintive. “I have to get back my throne.”

“Your throne,” repeated Mirgan. “Always your throne. If you had only done a single ounce of good in all these years with your thrice-damnèd throne!”

Arthur was silent. This was how they survived, was it not? With silence. He not challenging her when she was explosive, and she keeping calm most of the time. But sometimes, one could not stay calm, could one? There were events one had to oppose, where one could not stay quiet and let the flow of events wash over oneself. Arthur’s coronation, Gawain’s murder, Guinevere’s wedding—and at least a half a dozen more over the long eighteen years since Arthur had become king. And now, finally, this.

Morgan looked over the camp, to where her sorceress’s mind sensed Merlin, out of her eyesight, but waiting to come again to Arthur and poison him anew. Always, there was Merlin, standing beside Arthur, and Arthur’s throne.

“Your throne is why we are here today,” reminded Morgan. “Because everything—morals, justice, even love—must be subordinated to the single fact that the throne belongs to you.”

They had had this argument a hundred times. But it was always the same argument. The argument they had when, eighteen years ago, she had come to the new young king and begged him to abandon the throne, to put Merlin aside.

_“Forget humanity,” Arthur pleads. “Forget everything. I love you, that’s what matters.”_ _Eighteen years later, the words still haunt her._

And they had the same argument the next day, when she returned, impregnated, and he had chosen his throne over her. Those words, too, haunted her as well. They would have the argument again, and again and again and again, until Arthur died and the throne passed into other hands—whether those hands be Mordred’s, or the hands of a son of Guinevere, or the hands of someone else entirely.

“Can’t you try and talk some sense into the boy?” asked Arthur.

“I’ve been trying to do that for seventeen years,” answered Morgan. “Maybe if he had a father who helped. . . .”

“The time for that has passed,” pointed out Arthur. “He needs to be dealt with quickly. Couldn’t you freeze him, or use your magic to do something? You wouldn’t have to hurt him—”

“You are alike, you two,” Morgan said, an even greater anger swelling in her breast. “I tell myself that you are different, but under it all you are just like him. Freeze my son? Why should I, when he is right, and you are no better than a tyrant?”

“Morgan—”

“I’m tired of you, Arthur. Why cannot you for once take responsibility? This is as much your fault as it is Mordred’s. I told you this would happen, I—”

“It’s my fault!” Arthur exploded. “All right? I admit it. The last thing I want to do right now is take Calagwlch to my son. Do you think I am looking forward to it? I’m dreading it, Morgan. But with God as my witness, I am not going to allow him to sit on my throne and sleep with my wife. I may not be the best king ever, I admit, but there is no way I am letting that would-be tyrant rule Britain.”

And to that, Morgan could only be silent.


	5. Chapter 5

“Focus, focus harder,” instructed Morgan. “You have to concentrate on the crystal.”

Kapalu looked up at her. “I could,” he said, “if you would only stop telling me that I need to focus. It breaks my concentration every time.”

“Sorry,” answered Morgan. “Perhaps I am the one who is having difficulty concentrating.”

“You’re worried about your son. That’s certainly understandable.”

“I can’t understand what he was thinking,” said Morgan. “I wouldn’t think even he could be that foolish.”

“He’s done what we’ve been trying to do ever since he was born. Arthur is dethroned, and the people can at last be free.”

“Under Mordred?” asked Morgan. “A canary in a cage would have more liberty.”

“Perhaps you wrong your son, my lady,” pointed out Kapalu. “What has he done but throw off the yoke of an oppressive ruler?”

“Start a war, for one thing,” answered Morgan. “We fought wars against Arthur before, Kapalu. Too many people died, and nothing changed. We were playing right into Merlin’s hands, bringing chaos, war, anarchy with every move. At long last, we learned the error of our ways.”

“You learned to be afraid,” corrected Kapalu. “You stopped believing change was possible, so you stopped working for it. Everyone says wait, wait, and only Melora says fight.”

“Even Melora would not be fool enough to trust Mordred,” said Morgan. “I can’t believe you, my own apprentice, are saying such things.”

“That I am siding with your son? Did you not teach him as well?”

“I did my best by him,” said Morgan, wondering for the thousandth time if it was the truth. “He would not allow himself to be taught.”

“He did not learn what you would have had him learn, you mean. He did not learn to sit back and wait for you to wait, wait, while Arthur runs Britain into oblivion, and the people die from the heavy chains he inflicts upon them. He did not learn to ignore their suffering the way you do, worrying only about whether or not Arthur is unharmed. He did not learn to use any excuse possible to refrain from taking action. So, instead, he acted. Yes, he stole the kingdom and the queen, but a hundred years from now, his name will be called out as a savior and a liberator.”

“If his name is remembered,” said Morgan, “it will be cursed and reviled forever. As will my name with it, no doubt. What could I have done, to make things turn out different, I do not know. Don’t you think I lay awake at night, asking myself what I did wrong, how I could have been a better mother, sister, lover. I know I haven’t been perfect, Kapalu, believe me, I know it.”

She stood there, shocked by her explosion. To rail against Arthur that way was one thing, but never before has she lost control like that in front of her apprentice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “”You’re right: I’m worried about Mordred, And about Arthur.”

“The old king has come to his time,” said Kapalu. “It’s time for his reign to be ended, once and for all. If you weren’t still so blinded by love, you would see that, my lady.”

Morgan picked up the crystal which still sat on the small table in the center of the room, held it in her hand. “Something is going to end,” she said. “Something.”

Suddenly she broke her reverie. “This is getting tedious, Nimue,” she said.

The girl stepped out of the shadows which had been empty a moment before. “Mistress Morgan,” she said as greeting.

“Don’t you get tired of spying, Nimue?” Morgan asked. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Mordred and Guinevere have retired to bed. They have . . . grown weary of my presence.”

“Come on,” said Morgan. “Get your own life. Stop constantly being an appendage of someone else. There is such a thing as free will, you know.”

“Is there,” said Nimue. It was not quite a question. “And yet each of us is tied to our fate. Except you. Did you know that, Mistress Morgan? We cannot see your future. You are the only one of us who is free. And what shall you do with your freedom? None of us can answer; no one can answer that question, can they? You yourself do not even know.”

The girl paused. “It is Arthur’s fault, you know that, even as Kapalu himself tells you it. You warned him again and again, and he ignored you, rejected you. He deserves to fall. Wouldn’t that please you, Mistress Morgan, after he’s scorned you all these years?”

“No!” Her vehemence surprised even Morgan herself.

“Oh, but it would,” Nimue contradicted. “Arthur’s time has come, there is no arguing it. You can still make it all easier for all involved. Wipe out your brother’s troops—with a single blast of fire, perhaps? You can do it; I’ve watched you cast the spell.”

Morgan did not answer, only stood there staring at the girl’s blue eyes. “So this is the side you have chosen,” she said at last to Kapalu.

* * *

_End it all, Morgan, says the Voice. You cam do it—all it will take is a single fireball, or a conjured block of ice. You know a thousand different ways. More than that, answers Morgan. Tens of thousands. What use is but one way to kill?_

_ But she is not a killer._

_ She turns toward the Voice, to say no to it, to argue and to resist, but what she sees is her own mother, the bruises fresh on her face from King Uther’s temper. You can do it, Morgan, she says. Put me out of my mystery._

_ No, Morgan’s brain tells her, it’s not real; her mother has been dead for twenty-seven years. But that part of her mind is impotent, with no control over her; she might as well be paralyzed as far as it is concerned._

_ You can do it, the Voice says again, only now it has the face of Mordred, and is his voice. Destroy Arthur, he urges her._

_ Destroy Mordred, it says, and is Arthur._

_ Destroy, destroy, destroy! It is Merlin, Nimue, Guinevere, Lancelot, Melora, Kapalu . . . it is everyone she has ever known._

_ No! she yells back at the voices. Damn you all!_

Morgan awoke, but the questions remained. What would she do, in the morning, after she return to her restless sleep and was forced with the reality of a siege for another day? It had been over a week already. What could she do? Should she help Mordred dethrone his father? Or help Arthur to defeat his son? Her heart hated both possibilities. But could she just sit back and watch them destroy each other, without doing anything? That, too, was unthinkable.

Then what? Morgan did not know.

Was Kapalu right? Was it time to act, after having waited for so long? Uneasy, Morgan got out of the bed. She slipped out of her room, made her way down the corridor of Caerleon Castle, even as she had done in the corridors of Sir Ector’s castle eighteen years ago, sneaking up to the room in the tower to find at last the access to Merlin’s workshop. Now, in Caerleon, she sent her mind into the mists, searching the structure of the castle. Even Merlin did not know all of Caerleon’s secrets, she knew, but Morgan only need a single passageway. At the end of the corridor, she found one, and with a word used her art to trigger the mechanism within. The wall opened, and Morgan began to descend down towards the cavern deep below Caerleon Castle. Deep beneath the Earth was the wizard’s workshop; eerily appropriate, Morgan mused, as it was as close to Hell as one could get.

“Why, Mistress Morgan,” came Merlin’s voice as Morgan came into sight. “What an unexpected surprise.”

Morgan looked around the workshop. It was not the same workshop which lied beneath Sir Ector’s castle—for one thing, this one was much larger—but it was similar: shelves of books, cabinets full of components, and a complete assortment of lethal weapons gracing the walls. In the center was the same old cauldron, Nimue standing it over it in her blue dress. “My lady,” asked Nimue, “whatever do you want?”

Morgan faced Merlin. “Why?” she asked.

_Eighteen years before, under the throes of Nimue’s spell, Morgan wishes to cry out, scream in pain, but she cannot get the air. All she can manage is a single whispered word: “Why?”_

_ In the blackness, she can hear a child’s voice answer: “As a lesson.”_

“Why?” Morgan repeated, and this time, it was Merlin who answered.


	6. Chapter 6

“Why,” you ask, Morgan?

There is no “why.” There is only life, an insufferable stream of events one after another. We try and make sense of it, give it order, but in the end there can be no “why.”

There was a time, long ago, when I was not the many you see before you now. Once upon a time, I was what you would call innocent, even though no human being outside the womb is ever truly innocent. I was wracked by the same lusts and temptations as any child, and I sinned as a child sins, without skill or finesse, unable to savor the sweet rebellion of the transgression. I was what you in your sentimentality would call “pure at heart.” I followed the rules and the morals handed down to me—for the most part—by my elders. In general, I did not question them. Even as I broke those rules, it did not occur to me that perhaps my violation was not an affront to the gods or a break from the natural order of things. I knew guilt then, Morgan, an emotion I have not felt for hundreds of years.

Not all of those rules would you agree with, Morgan. It was a different age, before the Romans came, and some of the customs we had then would make you shudder. Many of the rules, on the other hand, you would steadfastly agree with. In either case, I followed them blindly or broke them blindly, firm in my belief that they were an Absolute Good and a path to success.

In the end, of course, Time’s lessons taught me otherwise. My elders were idealists—no, they were worse than that: they were hypocrites. Evil is stronger than good, always has been and always will be. Why do you think it wins even now? Any realist would have to admit it, but you have always lived your life in your storybooks, unwilling to live it on its own terms. You are always looking for your “happily ever after.” You won’t find it—believe me, I have looked. Life has no fairy godmothers, Morgan—but it has wicked stepmothers a plenty.

There was a time when I was struck by the grand injustice of it, as I rather gather you are struck right now. I know your anger, Morgan, your frustration, your hatred of a universe where brother rises against brother and where people cannot be judges upon their merit. I felt it too.

But no longer. Those days are in the past. There is no justice, brotherhood of man, no harmony, no grand moral order to the universe. If these things exist, it is only as abstractions, as ideals. What is there in the world? Only men, and women, and spirits, and humanoids, all fighting and bickering, peace but a moment’s rest from war. Even we, who know that the gods exist, know also what people are too afraid to admit to themselves—for the most part, They simply don’t care. When They do take an our affairs, They are hardly always benevolent. But mostly They are more interested in their own petty battles.

And that’s it. The world is filled with chaos, war, and anarchy. Nothing else.

It’s not an easy lesson to learn, Morgan; I realize that. I wandered through the world for the decades with nothing to believe in, nothing to hope for, with no purpose or destination. I watched the Romans come and I watched the Romans go. Nothing could kill me; I was too powerful, almost immortal, even. I despaired through the ages, not caring from one moment to the next.

You know the feeling, dear? What it is like to be helpless, able to do nothing to stop the suffering? Wait until you have lived through a century of it, or more.

In the middle of my self-destruction, it became clear to me: I looked at my life, realized the wretch I had become, starving in the wilderness. You have heard of Christ appearing to murderers, causing them to repent of their sins? To St. Paul on the road to Demascus? It was like thatm Morgan: a single moment, when, at last, everything was made clear. I realized my true place in this world.

Conqueror.

What was the first lesson that Nimue delivered t you, in a workshop not unlike this one, under a castle all too different from Caerleon Castle? Was it not that we were a greater breed of man? You have seen the lowness of men—men like Arthur, Lancelot, Agravaine. Only your son and his new lover have managed to set themselves apart their low birthright. Yet even they cannot rise to where we are, Morgan, able to kill either of them with a mere word, lording over them by sheer virtue of our art.

We are a greater breed of men, and I am the greatest of that breed. I could not stop suffering, perhaps, but I could reshape the old chaos into an order of my liking—and when I gre tired of the new order, return it to the chaos from whence it came. Was there any reason why I should not have done so? There was no one to stop me.

I fashioned my ivory tower out of my whims, my pleasures, and my desires, and now like a child playing with blocks, I have decided to destroy it. Who are you to tell me otherwise?

Nimue taught that magic was but a form of power. Do you doubt it? Can you deny it? You, who have practiced the Art of Sorcery for almost twenty years now, know it to be so. And this is why you do not bring your sorcery against me: you have come to fear your own power.

It was not always so. There was a time when you came to my workshop, eager to learn the Art of Sorcery. Once upon a time, you would hide in the shadows and read my spellbooks, unknown to me, none but Nimue the wiser to your activities. Your heart hungered for that power to re-make the world in your image as the sorceresses in your storybooks would. You taught yourself spells, so you could evoke fire from the air, make plants grow, and a hundred other things. It was your way of finally ordering the universe, after living for so long at the mercy of Fate. Your heart hungered for the power that it knew was within its grasp, recognized its true place in the scheme of things.

You could have been the greatest sorceress ever, Morgan, with no enchanter save myself as your superior. But you rejected your place, denied your true nature, flew from my workshop in fear, You turned your back on your destiny.

I have not.

* * *

For a second, the light was blinding as Merlin vanished in a burst of flame. Then the shadows returned to Merlin’s workshop, the pervasive darkness settling over it like the black robes Nimue had renounced in favor of her new blue dress. Morgan turned to the girl, now.

“My lady,” asked Nimue, “what will you do now?”

What would she do? Morgan laughed, a harsh but quiet laugh. That was why she came to Merlin, was it not? Seeking an answer to that question. And she had found nothing, as lost as she had been before. Or was she? Chaos, war, and anarchy, Merlin had said. There was nothing else, or so he said.

But wasn’t he right? The world was filled with Merlins, Mordreds, and Guineveres, people who cared for nothing but themselves. Morgan’s own life story were full of them, beginning with the very moment when King Uther, at Merlin’s urging, ravished her mother and fathered Arthur. Evil was indeed winning—how could she doubt when it pulled apart at the very fabric of her life, when war would be launched at the very structure of Caerleon Castle itself?

Morgan could not rid humanity if its vices and demons. People had free will, and inevitably some would choose to be like Mordred or like Guinevere. Perhaps, in truth, this was their battle, not hers. Chaos, war, and anarchy would always be there, leaving her with only one choice.

“Nothing,” she told Nimue. “There is nothing I can do.”

Nimue examined Morgan for a second; then, her eyes fell away. “In that case,” she said without sadness, “I fear Britain is lost.”

Morgan looked at Nimue in wonder. The girl had always been an enigma to Morgan. What kind of person was she, truly? Who could follow Merlin, yet alone fall in love with him? Yet when Morgan looked down at Nimue in her pretty blue dress, all she saw were the baffled blue eyes of a child. A child in need of a parent, Morgan realized. A child who had never truly been shown love.

_The girl pulls a knife from the folds of her robe—where had that been?—and holds it to Morgan’s breast. Morgan can feel the blade up against the bosom of her dress. Nimue holds her left hand in place with her right to steady it._

Morgan remembered that moment, eighteen years ago. Morgan had trespassed on Nimue’s territory threatened the girl’s relationship with her master as prize student. Like a cornered kitten, Nimue could only attack. She didn’t know anything else.

_As Morgan takes a book off the shelf, a black cat rubs against her leg. Morgan bends down to scratch the cat between the ears, and the cat purrs softly._

Why did Nimue not tell Merlin of Morgan’s nightly trips to his workshop? If she asked, would the girl herself be even to tell her?

_There is a cabinet in the corner of the room, with two dragons, locked in combat, engraved on the door. Morgan will see what would be found within it. Staying within the shadows, she makes her way to the cabinet, taking pains to avoid being seen by Merlin as he hovers over his cauldron. Her hand is over the handle when suddenly there is a long shrieking mew._

What was in the cabinet that caused Nimue to call out when Morgan approached it? She could not guess its gruesome contents. Now Merlin was done, and her mastery of Faerie was superior to Nimue’s. Suddenly, Morgan became aware of the length of time she had been doing naught but staring into the depths of Nimue’s quiet, wistful blue eyes, neither sad nor fearful nor gay, as Morgan relived the nights so many years ago. And all Nimue had done was stare into those quiet, wistful brown eyes that were Morgan’s.

“I do not think Britain is lost,” said Morgan. “Damaged, yes. But it will rebuild. At which point, your master will tear it down again.” She looked around and found, as she knew she would, that same cabinet, with the two dragons locked in combat within the wood. She walked towards it, tried to open it; it was sealed, as she knew it would be, by some of Merlin’s strongest magics.

“My lady,” said Nimue, “it is forbidden to open it.”

“Of course,” answered Morgan. “Which is why I am going to.”

Morgan marshaled the forces of Faerie with her mind and holding, her outstretched palm over the two dragons, begin to chant. “_Avre’anva lakinosh di’ae arbrii.” _The doors sprung open.

Morgan looked inside the cabinet, but was surprised to find it empty. After a little searching, she finally found a few locks of red hair. “What is this?” she asked aloud.

“I do not know, my lady,” answered Nimue. “I have never looked inside.”

* * *

There was a banging on the door—at first, no more than a gentle knocking, but growing louder and culminating in a loud, continued striking.

Mordred snored. He was a sound sleeper; that was for sure; he did not seem to hear the loud banging at all. He continued to slumber peacefully, no doubt dreaming of conquests and other sadistic pleasures.  
Guinevere, on the other hand, was a light sleeper; she awoke from her slumber almost immediately. Lying next to Mordred, she hastened to jolt him awake. He woke with an expletive.

“The door,” Guinevere explained in a whisper.

“Come in,” said Mordred loudly. “This had better be good,” he added more softly to Guinevere.

Agravaine entered. “My lord,” he said, “Arthur’s forces are pulling back. They are ending the siege.”

This was good news, if true; finally Arthur was giving up, it seemed. Guinevere had not realized his troops had been so badly wounded.

“We must not let the regroup,” Mordred cautioned. “Prepare a major offensive.”

“Perhaps,” pointed out Guinevere, “Arthur is attempting to pull out as a decoy, so he can fight you on even ground.”

Mordred considered this. “Arthur’s not that smart, but Merlin is, and I don’t trust the wizard. Regardless, we have force enough to defeat Arthur’s troops. It’s time we finished this once and for all, my love.”

“We’re follow them at daybreak, then,” said Agravaine.

Mordred shook his head. “No,” he said, stepping out of bed and beginning to get dressed. “We attack now, and do not relent until Arthur’s troops lie dead on the fields of Britain.” Once he had all his clothes on, he leant over and kissed Guinevere above her breast. “When I return, I will be the undisputed master of all Britain.”

And with that, he left with Agravaine, leaving Guinevere in the bedroom, in the dark, while her lover went to war, to conquer the island of Britain as he had conquered her.


	7. Chapter 7

“What happened?” asked Morgan, again. “How did we get here?” And where would they go from there?

“Fate,” was Nimue’s answer. “The inexorable march of time, of cause and of effect.”

“That’s cheerful,” was Guinevere’s response. “Some of us like to at least pretend we are the mistresses of our own fates, Nimue.”

The girl was silent.

The three woman sat in a chamber of Caerleon Castle, in a quiet camaraderie. The men had gone off to fight their war, leaving the women behind. The three women who had planned and schemed against each other were now powerless to affect any change as their loved ones risked their lives trying to kill each other.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” was the queen’s advice to Morgan. “Each of us can only be held accountable for own actions. It makes as much sense for you to flagellate yourself over Arthur’s foolishness or Mordred’s recklessness than for me to hold myself responsible for Nimue’s deviousness.”

“I was Mordred’s mother,” insisted Morgan. “I raised him; it was my job to teach him right and wrong.”

“Mordred’s not one to be taught,” pointed out Guinevere. “He does what he wants, and doesn’t care what anyone thinks about it. He is not bound by the chains of right and wrong not because you were deficient in teaching them to him, but because he is man enough to rise above them.”

“And how did that happen? What made _my son_ that way? Why Mordred?”

“Think about it,” said Guinevere. “How could he be anything else? Think about Mordred growing up, with you and Arthur as his parents. You, Morgan, the sorceress, the mistress of an Art he would never be able to understand, let alone master. And Arthur, the king, with a throne that would never pass to him. He could never surpass either of you, never become an adult in his own right, so what could he do, but lash out by trying to control everything. Now he has his father’s throne, and his father’s wife, and can at last call himself a man.”

“He needs to take over the country to be a man?” asked Morgan.

Guinevere nodded. “Being a woman is so much simpler, isn’t it?” She gave one of her charming smiles, which did nothing to mask the deviousness beneath.

“And what’s your story, then?” Morgan asked her. “You’re no different than he is.”

“Oh, I have no story. I’m just a simple girl trying to make it in a complicated world.”

“You live for power just as much as Mordred does,” accused Morgan.

“Power? If I had power, would I be stuck in Caerleon Castle while my husband and lover make war? No woman can have power, Morgan, at least not in this age. All of my life I have had t rely on men—my father, Merlin, Arthur, Mordred—even Lancelot, God help me. The only women able to hold power are those like you and Nimue, able to use the Art of Sorcery to achieve your ends. All that the rest of us can hope for is to be subject to a powerful man.”

“My mother was subject to a powerful man,” pointed out Morgan. “It’s not all it’s made out to be.”

“Even now,” insisted Gunevere. “I must sit here, clueless as to how the battle goes or even who is winning. Mordred and Arthur could both be dead, for all I know.”

“No,” said Morgan. “I would know if they were dead.”

“See?” said Guinevere. “You have access to the cosmic currents. I have nothing.”  
She turned to Nimue. “Tell me what is happening, at least.”

The girl nodded, closed her eyes. “The battle continues, long and hard. Mordred has fought Arthur back to the sea, or else Mordred has pushed Arthur back. Who knows? There is only the constant clash of iron against iron to be heard over the crash of the waves, neither side winning, each side taking heavy losses.

“I see Mordred,” she continued. “Your son fights well, Morgan, although I suppose that is small consolation to you. He holds off three swordsmen with his own weapon. Now there are only two. Now one.

“Arthur, of course, bears Calagwlch. With it, he is the same unstoppable force he has always been. Swordsman after swordsman falls to the mystic blade, a trail of carnage left behind them, the man and his sword. My mother’s sword does not lack in potency.

“Yet he is not invincible. As he mows down life after life, putting an end to each man’s blessed existence, a stray sword flies through the air. It is your apprentice’s sword, Morgan.”

Morgan raged silently. What was Kapalu doing on that battlefield anyway? How could he possibly follow Mordred?

“The sword lands in Arthur’s chest. He is wounded.”

Morgan felt it, too. Silenty, she said a prayer for her brother. She knew in her heart that it was not a wound from which he would be able to recover.

“I’m sorry, Morgan,” said Guinevere.

“And yet Arthur persists in fighting,” Nimue continued, “and Calagwlch, in it’s thirst for blood, continues to find the hearts of its victims. It is as if it attacks on its own volition now, as it kills man after man in the hand of the wounded king.

“Arthur sees Mordred on the horizon. He pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the debilitating pain of his wound, letting nothing keep him from his goal of facing his son. He limps towards Mordred, Calagwlch hacking a path through the battlefield. He is on Mordred, now, and not even the boy’s mastery of the sword can protect him from the magical might of Calagwlch, even as Arthur himself falls to the ground.

“It is ended.”

_No! Morgan’s very being screams out, railing out against the cold facts which she knows are true. She can feel Calagwlch slice through her son’s flesh as if it were her own body—and in a way of course, it is. He had come from her body, she had raised him, nursed him at her own breast, and loved him for seventeen years. He is part of her, even as Arthur is part of her._

_She chokes back her tears as she finds herself sailing through the mists. She makes no conscious decision top join her son; yet within moments she finds herself at his side._

_ “Mordred,” she cries out through her tears, but she knows it is too late. Her son is dead._

“Morgan,” said a weak voice, pained voice behind her. “I’m sorry.” It was Arthur.

“It’s not your fault,” said Morgan. “It’s fate. Nimue said so.”

“Nimue?” asked Arthur. “Who’s she?”

Through her tears, Morgan suddenly wanted to laugh, although she could not. Arthur, so blind to evil, missed the very _existence_ of a player so influential as Merlin’s apprentice. He only understood good, did not understand the evil in the world or why it was there. Morgan envied him. Arthur had always been too good for a world where the good were always manipulated by those with evil ends.”

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated through her tears, holding her slan son in her arms. “It’s Mordred’s fault, and Guinevere’s and Merlin’s. But through it all, you have been kind old Arthur, blinded by his idealism and naïveté. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re older than I am,” he said weakly.

Morgan did laugh this time, in spite of herself. Her features quickly fell back into an expression of despair. “That’s a mortal wound.”

“I know. It is better this way,” he said. “It’s for the best.”

“No,” said Morgan. “I’ll miss you. I can’t bear it if you left me.” “_I’ve missed you,” Arthur says, eighteen years ago. “I could’t bear if you left again.” This is the night Mordred is conceived. _“I will not let Merlin take both of you from me.”

Morgan looked up at the hazy sky that hung over the sea. “Sisters,” she called out, her voice now loud and clear. And from the mists stepped out Melora, Sabille, and Alcina. “These are the Queens of Faerie,” Morgan introduced them to the fallen Arthur.

“Good evening, Sister Morgan,” greeted Alcina, as she knelt down to inspect Arthur. “Although the evening is anything but, I fear. Alas, his wound has taken cold?”

“Can you not heal him?” asked Morgam. “We healed Melora and her wounds were much worse than this.”

Alcina shook her head. “Melora is an enchantress, sustained by Faerie and with a strong link to it. Arthur’s lifelink is weak, and fading.”

“Then we must take him to Avalon,” said Morgan, “beyond the mists. Oberon will be able to heal his wound.”

“You have to be here” Arthur insisted, even as his strength began to fade. “You have to continue the fight. You were right, you know. You were right about . . . about everything.”

Now that Mordred is dead and Arthur is dying, her brother finally sees the truth, Morgan reflected. “Damn Merlin,” she said with vehemence, echoing once again that fateful night so many years ago. “Damn humanity. It’s not Merlin: without him, there would still have been Mordred, and there still would have been Guinevere. There would have been Lancelot, and Agravaine and his father, and every other self-serving—” She didn’t finish. “Brothers would still fight against brothers, sons would still rise against their fathers. Evil would continue unabated.”

“Very well,” said Alcina. “We will go to Avalon.”

“Wait,” said Arthur. “Calagwlch.”

The sorceresses gazed upon the fine enchanted metal of the blades, forged so long ago in a time that was remembered only in myth and legend. “A powerful weapon,” agreed Melora. “Far too powerful for any one man to hold.”

Morgan took the sword from her dying brother, held its enchanted blade in her hands and felt the awesome power it held. She threw into the sea.

Alcina rose her hand to the sea, and the mists parted, revealing a boat large enough to hold the five. The four sorceresses helped the wounded Arthur into the ship. Morgan turned back towards Britain, even as the boat began to sail for Avalon, at the shores they were leaving. Comfort yourself, she thought, and be strong, for we can help you no longer. And she placed Arthur’s head on her lap, and the sailed into the setting sun.


	8. Epilogue (Morgan Speaks)

_And so we sailed into the happily ever after, reaching at last the Isle of Avalon beyond the mists. There we were welcomed by the High Queen Titania, and her consort Oberon, and their daughter Gloriana, the last of whom I must say Arthur became quite enamored immediately. It was Oberon and Gloriana who healed Arthur of his wounds, and we resigned ourselves to an eternity in the paradise that was Avalon. In Avalon, Arthur and I could finally share our love for each other, both as siblings and as lovers, but also as more than either, as friends._

_Those on Real Earth were not so lucky. Humanity wrestled with its demons, both internal and external, seemingly unto eternity. Strife stills set one brother against another; chaos, war, and anarchy continued unabated. The battle was over, and it seemed that Merlin had won._


	9. Coda: The Beguiling

The battle was indeed over, and it had seemed that Merlin had won. Britain, after all, was in shambles, although it looked as if it would be Morgan’s former apprentice, Kapalu, who (with his spellcasting abilities and innate elvish glamour) would emerge as king if Britain were to be unified at all in the immediate future. He would perhaps try to observe the ideals that Mordred had only paid homage to in speech; but how far would he get, with Merlin’s ever-present eye always watching?

Yet that was Merlin’s concern, and Merlin’s delight, and a concern for another day. Who could know what plans Merlin had in store for Britain? Certainly not Nimue.

The wizard pressed her naked body down to the ground as he straddled her. Merlin had had his battle, and it certainly had been glorious. He found it exhilarating, Nimue knew, seeing men set against their fellow men in the ecstasy of battle. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself the pleasure, instead choosing to enforce the oppressive order of Arthur’s reign. Order was but a particularly violent form of chaos; that had been one of Merlin’s lessons to Nimue.

The girl (naked beneath him, eager to give herself up wholly to his body) had watched with him as the people struggled under the harsh yoke that Merlin created for them so that he could watch their pain and their suffering. Some things, like revolution, Merlin felt were best not overindulged in.

Nimue looked at this man who now laid atop her, the man who had brought about this revolution, and the revolution before it, and the revolution before that. Nimue had been there for them all, a player in his schemes, knowing with him the thrill that revolution brought, the power that came with the knowledge of the Art of Sorcery. She had watched kings fall and kings rise, kings like Arthur and kings like Mordred, kings like Uther and kings like Kapalu.

What were they doing but celebrating the fall of yet another king? Merlin had brought her here, deep within the forest, to take her, apparently—it seemed to be a place of some significance to Merlin, although she had no idea what that significance would be. Merlin, even after the century they had spent together, was in many ways a real enigma.

Nimue arched her back the way Guinevere had shown her, giving her body a welcoming curve. Not that Merlin needed an invitation, of course, in order to do to her what she has hungered for so long without realizing it, until Guinevere awoke her to the fact. She belonged to Merlin, was his, had been his ever since her mother gave her to Merlin as an apprentice. She was Merlin’s to do with as he wished; if he had chose to cut her throat there in the forest she would have given herself up willingly; the fact that he now chose to take her was no more significant than the fact that he had chosen otherwise until now.

Why now, and not the last revolution, or the revolution before that? Yes, it could have been the tricks Guinevere taught her, or the blood and jimsonweed she had mixed into their picnic, or simply that this was how long it had taken her, affected by age much less than a mortal girl, to fully blossom into a shape which was desirable to Merln. When her mother had given her to him, after all, she was but a girl, scrawny and without breasts. In any case, Nimue, locked now under the magician’s body, was finally real to Merlin, and for the first time, Nimue felt real.

Merlin gave no thought to Nimue’s pleasure, of course, and neither did Nimue herself, but the pleasure came nonetheless, unbidden. It spread through her body even as the wizard pressed her naked body even harder down into the sharp stones and twigs which lined the forest floor. The pain did not bother her; Nimue was oh so intimate with pain, and was its mistress.

Satisfied, Merlin rose from atop her.

“You must be well pleased, master,” said Nimue. “Britain is once again at war, as it was twenty years ago.”

Merlin nodded, his hand absently sliding down the side of her naked body, in a gesture more of possession than of affection. “Yes, when Mistress Morgan and her friends led the war against her lover and brother. We will miss the Lady Morgan, I think.”

Lady Morgan le Fay had abandoned Earth to take Arthur to the Isle of Avalonb, after so many years of opposing Merlin. He was right: Nimue had grown used to Morgan’s constant presence and intervention.

“Much has happened in those twenty years,” mused Nimue. Twenty years was such a short time in either of their lives; each of them has lived for centuries, with Nimue the older by far. It was only Merlin’s human birthright, once—albeit no longer—so prone to the aging of the flesh, that made him master over her, a mature man when she was only beginning to learn what it meant to be a woman.

Yet in so short a time so much had happened. Mordred’s short life did not even span it. Gawain died, then Lancelot, then Arthur and so many of his knights. And Guinevere had been born.

“What has happened to the queen, master? Certainly she is not still within Caerleon Castle?”

“She has retired to a brothel, somewhere, I believe,” he answered, “and will no doubt be running it within a month. I have no doubt we shall see her again.”  
“Perhaps not,” said Nimue, thoughtfully. After a moment, she rose. “Come with me, master. I have something to show you.”  
She led the way through the forest, naked, and he followed her just as bare. She stopped in front of an old oak tree, several feet in diameter. “Here,” she said.

Merlin stepped up to it, touched it, then looked back at her. “It’s just a tree, Nimue,” he said.

She began to chant. Channeling the energies and binding them around Merlin and the tree. The sorceror began to resist, to draw on Faerie himself. “_Ghe'r_,” Nimue said, cutting him off from Faerie and binding him even further. The mists began to form, surrounding Merlin.

“Goodbye, master,” Nimue said, and then, with a gesture, both the mists and the magician were gone. Nimue was alone, naked, in the forest.

As a dove, she flew from the rising sun.


End file.
